


Handling

by sonatine



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cartson, F/M, One Shot, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The body language of the SSR: said and unsaid</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handling

 “Chief.”

 

Peggy holds out a form for him to sign. He does absently, watching Thompson persuade a more reluctant detainee through the one-sided glass. Peggy takes back the signed form and slips out into the hallway just as Thompson is leaving the interrogation room. He nods to her. “Carter,” he says, shaking out his hands.

 

“Thompson.”

 

Jack looks up to find Agent Carter standing in front of his desk. “If you’ve got a moment,” she says—it’s not a question, it’s a preamble to the rest of her inner monologue. It _sounds_ like she is asking his opinion about a case they are working, but Jack knows he is merely a sounding board. She is untying the knots of this case all by herself, out loud. Including someone else in the conversation is a formality and—he’s come to realize—a habit. If no one else respects your opinion, you must disguise it as a conversation.

 

He listens and nods, leaning back in his chair. Carter moves her hands as she speaks. She never used to. Her nails are bright red and they tap against his desk as she puts together a final piece of the puzzle. “If he _didn’t_ make that call—but someone else did—why would he say that—”

 

“An accomplice,” they say together. Peggy strides off towards the Chief’s office and Thompson reaches for his coat.

 

“Carter.”

 

She sends the last man flying against a brick wall. He crumbles to the ground. She rubs her bruised knuckles as Thompson stoops down beside their person-of-interest, cuffing him. “My gun?” he asks, and she nods to the far end of the alley. He retrieves it as she hauls the suspect to his feet. “Let’s go,” Thompson says to the suspect, and Peggy recognizes the change in his voice. He shoves the suspect into the back of the car. “I’ll drive,” Peggy says. Thompson keeps his gun trained on the suspect in the backseat as she drives, her hands white and clenched on the wheel.

 

“Agent.”

 

Peggy looks up blankly. She is sitting on the desk. “It’s not your fault,” Thompson says, standing in front of her. “You’re right,” she snaps, “it’s bloody well yours.” He doesn’t disagree, and she still doesn’t feel better. Just a small, careless mistake—everyone running on minimal sleep and the rush of adrenaline long since drained. Thompson reaches out (for his coat on the coat rack she assumes) and his hand for a moment brushes her hair away from her face. “Snap your arse into gear, mate,” he says in an appalling imitation of herself. She cracks a smile and rises.

 

“Rogers.”

 

For a moment Peggy’s heart stops. “Henry Rogers,” the suspect elaborates, straining against the handcuffs that bind him to the table. Peggy resumes her interrogation with more force than necessary. Her hand cracks against the man’s cheek. She exits the room soon after to give Thompson a shot at the suspect. He’s been playing the role of good cop lately, which is frankly more terrifying than his bad cop, and she has a few minutes of rest before she’ll have to return to finish off the questioning. Thompson says nothing as they pass each other in the hallway, but briefly brushes her hand with his own.

 

“Peggy.”

 

Jack’s hands are gentle on her shoulders, sliding slowly down to her waist. She roughly pushes him against the wall and their hands intertwine.


End file.
